Seconda Vita
by Fringe
Summary: Just because it's the end doesn't mean it's not a story in it's own right.
1. Chapter 1

**Author Note:** Hey guys! How are ya'll? I'm excited to finally get this fic off the ground! I recently fell in love with first person, so I decided to do this fiction that way. I think it works well. The whole thing will be from Axel's point of view, because, well, he's my favorite.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Kingdom Hearts, or any of its characters therein.

**Warnings:** There is some language, namely variations on the word ass. If that bothers you, I'm sorry.

* * *

If there is one thing in life I hate more then anything, it's ass-kissing. There's nothing worse then having to bend over backwards for some half-wit who doesn't know what he wants. I've always hated taking orders. I like doing things my own way.

That's not how the world works, though. In the real world, you have to do whatever it takes. Ass-kissing included.

I'm getting ahead of myself, though. I could tell you about the beginning of my life, which was anticlimactic, the middle, which was depressing, or the end, which actually several kinds of awesome.

Begin with the end in mind, I always say.

* * *

I think the best place to start might be mid-January. I'd just turned 21, which made my boss very, very happy.

"Now you can take clients out for drinks," he told me in his office one Friday afternoon, "Legally."

"I hate to point this out to you, Mr. Vargas, but, I'm a_ pyrotechnician_. Not a PR person," I pointed out sarcastically, leaning back in one of the many plush chairs that littered the office, "Why don't you get someone like, I dunno, _Rob_ to do it. He's nice. You know, personable."

"No, you don't get it," he said, standing up and pointing at me with one of his fat fingers, "I can't have him do it. Rob has the style sense of a soccer mom who's forgotten it's not _1985_. I need you to do it because you…seem to have somewhat of a grasp on what's cool and what;s not."

"So?" I said, standing up. This was ridiculous. "The obvious answer is to get a new PR agent. Not get your already underpaid technician to do it. For the love of God, even _Russel_ would be better suited to this job then me."

"I can't afford to lose Russel. And new PR is coming in on Tuesday. In the meantime, if you want to keep your job, you're going to do a favor for me," Vargas spat, his chins jiggling, "Unless you want to go back to living in a _dumpster_."

"Fine. How many of these suckers do I have to entertain?" I asked, crossing my arms, as if that covered up the fact I'd admitted defeat.

"For now? Just one. His name is James Hagerty. He's got that nice, mellow sound. He's likely to bring the company lots of revenue, so make sure the little bastard is happy, okay?"

* * *

If there's anything you ever learn from the story of my life, it's never be a part of the music business. I could have been one of those fireworks guys at Disneyland. Instead, I held the illustrious title of _Pryo Freak _for Vargas recording studios.

I had to admit, Vargas didn't waste time. He gave me the job on Friday, and the following day I was standing at LAX, bored, with a sign that had 'James Hagerty' written across it. In addition to my already standing title, I was now Vargas's official ass-kisser. It was infuriating. Not that anger was an unknown emotion in my life. In fact, I got angry a lot. So when a short, brown haired punk came up to me and introduced himself as James, I snapped.

"What the hell do you want?" I barked, crinkling the sign in my hand by accident.

"You're the person from the studio who's supposed to help me around this dump, right?" Hagerty said, squinting at me through his emoglasses, "Why not introduce yourself, instead of yelling at me."

"Oh. Yeah, names Axel," I said, sticking a hand out at him.

He ignored my gesture of goodwill. "Axel what?" he asked, confused.

"_AXEL. _A-X-E-L, Axel! Got it memorized, ass?" I spat.

"I meant your _last name_. Geez, I ask for some help and they send some freak," he groaned, shaking his head.

Freak. It was a pretty good way to describe me. From my near-fire-engine-red hair to the emerald green eyes, to my snarky attitude, I was pretty much a freak. Vargas once said it was like I'd just popped in LA out of nowhere. And he was pretty much right.

See, it wasn't my fault I'd forgotten my last name. I never had one to begin with. It all has to do with the fact I woke up in an alley when I was 17, alone, soaked with rain, with no memories and just my first name and a freaky black coat to go by. That's the story for another time, however. With Hagerty, I just gave him the name I gave everyone else: the first one that came to me.

"Uh...Smith. Axel Smith," I mumbled, stuffing the ruined sign into my pocket, "Sorry for being an ass, but I don't usually do PR. So, what the hell do you want to do?" I asked, snatching up his bag and motioning for the door.

"Axel Smith. You expect me to believe that. Sounds made up," Hagerty questioned, following behind me closely.

"Maybe it is," I said, smirking to myself.

Hagerty just gave me a suspicious sidelong glance. It wasn't until thirty minutes into our taxi ride that he decided to say something else.

"So, where are we going?" Hagerty asked, looking out the window idly.

"Vargas said to set you up in a hotel and then take you out on the town," I explained, staring out the opposite window, "Though, I think he assumed you'd have an entourage."

"I will…some of my college friends are going meet me tonight. I just wanted to know where we were going," he said, tone relaxed.

I must have said something right. Usually when I talked, I'd mess up the tone or something. I wasn't very careful when it came to what I said, or did. Vargas seemed to be picking up more and more emo, whiney singers who got upset at the littlest things. I had no idea, at this point, if Hagerty was going to follow this trend. All things considered, he actually seemed to be tolerating me, and that was enough.

* * *

It took a grand total of an hour to get Hagerty set up in his room. It surprised me how easygoing he was; perhaps I had wrongly labeled him. After all, I had just assumed he was an overpaid prick with an attitude. At least I knew I was a prick--if severely underpaid.

Hagerty's club of choice happened to be a popular place, the line stretching out from the door and around the block. Of course, his friends left something to be desired. They were all thin and lanky like him, most of them with the same glasses and haircuts. It was like looking at the Beatles, only much, much more depressing.

"So, need anymore help?" I asked, taking a nonchalant glance at the line we were about to tackle, "You know where your hotel is and everything, right?"

"How are we supposed to pay for drinks if you're not here? I was hoping the company would pay for something, considering they dragged me out here to do the recording," he replied, smiling, "Of course, you look like a fun guy. Why so serious?"

"Yes, Axel, why are you being so serious?" One of Hagerty's posse drawled, great lengths of his grey-blue hair covering one side his face.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Your head looks like you fell into a cotton candy machine," I chucked back, then turned back to Hagerty, "If you want to me to stay, I have to. So, lets get this party started."

* * *

The bouncer let us in without a second thought. Inside, several girls with the same kind of disheveled hair and thick glasses came up and started talking vehemently with Hagerty and his emo following. Everyone trickled onto the dance floor, except for me, and, much to my dismay, cotton candy head. I tried my hardest to evade him by scooting over to the bar, but I was followed. The bastard was pretty sneaky.

I sat down on one of the hard, lacquered bar stools and ordered some coke. I never was one for alcohol. It doesn't mix well with me; it goes through way too quick, and it burns at my insides, and not in a good way.

Cotton Candy sat next to me several minutes later, as though he didn't know I knew he was watching me. I saw right through it.

"What the hell do you want? I might be Hagerty's babysitter, but I sure as hell ain't yours," I hissed, stirring the straw of my coke.

"You don't like to dance?" he asked. His voice was surprising; there was no hint of emotion or inflection. It was almost frightening.

"No, no, I do. Its just, I'm not into the crowd," I said, swiveling my chair to face the floor like he was, "Nor the women, if you really wanted to know."

That always worked. Most people like him got all choked up on the sex thing. Acting gay just made their feathers more ruffled.

"That I had gathered a very long time ago. You're not acting like yourself, you know? Do you remember what you used to be like?" he asked, voice still cold.

Something inside of me snapped. Because I did remember what I had been like before I'd landed in LA four years ago, albeit vaguely: A heartless jerk. While I still acted like that, at least I had some shred of sympathy for other people now. The question wasn't if I remembered; it was if this bastard was actually referring to what I thought he was.

"What the hell are you talking about," I growled, "You can't possibly know anything about me!"

What came next surprised me even more. He laughed. Threw back his head and laughed ,liked he'd never seen anything more funny then the stupid look I had on my face.

"You're right," he said, "I don't know anything about you. I mixed you up with someone else."

With that, he slid off of his stool and started to walk off into the crowd. What came over me next was something I couldn't recognize; something that must have spurted from my unconsciousness.

"Whatever, retard! It's not like anyone listens to you anyway, Zexion!" I screamed across the bar.

He turned around abruptly, his eyes gleaming with emotion this time: surprise.

"So, how do you know my name, Axel?"

* * *

**End-note:** If Axel is my favorite, then Zexion comes in at a close second. Please Comment!


	2. Chapter 2

**Author note**: Seconda Vita is Italian for 'Second Life'. I think it's appropriate. No, I don't speak Italian, but I do have a loose grip on Spanish. Quieres comer un gato?

**Warnings: **A few bad words, but no f-bombs.

* * *

Memories are something I don't even want to begin to grasp. Just the complications that come of them makes it difficult to think. Maybe I just got so used to never remembering them that when some of them came back, they did so with a vengeance.

It wasn't painful, per se. Zexion's comment spread from my ears all the way down to me leadened feet. It caused something in my head to spark: a memory, him clothed in a knee-length black coat, barking at me to leave him alone and get back to work. That memory led to another, and another…names, faces, places all filled my head at an unimaginable pace.

According to Zexion, I screamed. I opened my eyes to find myself kneeling on the floor, hands gripping my hair, with every pair of eyes in the goddamned club staring at me.

"Quite the out of body experience, yes?" Zexion said, looming over me triumphantly, "Though, I have to admit, your reaction was much more aggressive than mine."

"Thanks for the mood upper, assface," I mumbled. My head felt heavy, as though I was using a whole section of my brain I had forgotten about.

"What the _hell_ is going on?!" someone yelled. Still hunched over, I peered to my right to see an ugly pair of loafers coming my way.

I decided the only way I could try to appear sane was to get up and face Hagerty myself. I got up carefully, not nearly as wobbly as I thought I would be. I hated looking weak.

"I've got this awful migraine," I answered.

Most people who'd been staring at me had dispersed at that point. I supposed they were hoping for something more exciting; like a bar fight or drunken morons having impromtu sex. But Hagerty and his crew just stood there, unconvinced.

"It's a really bad one. Hurts like a bitch," I added, but to no avail.

Hagerty sighed and told his lackeys they were leaving, then came up to me and pointed his finger at my face.

"I put up with your freaky died hair, shitty attitude, and overall incompetence long enough. Tell Vargas to get a new PR agent, or I'll start fighting the contract," he seethed.

I think that he was trying to be intimidating, but it's hard to take a short man in eyeliner and a sweater-vest seriously.

"I'll pass the message on," I replied.

"Hey, Zexion, we're leaving," Hagerty said, jerking his head to the side.

"I think I'll stay. I like watching the dancers," he said, face unreadable, "I'll call you later James."

"Freaking wierdos," Hagerty mumbled, throwing his hands up as he left.

* * *

Zexion stirred his coffee quietly, adding one packet of Splenda after another. I lost track at about seven. Why Zexion had led me into a nearby 24-hour coffee shop was anyone's guess; I didn't give a shit, anyway. My head was buzzing with all of the goddamned memories I'd just regained.

"Do you want some too?" he asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

"None of your putrid concoction, Zexy," I said, trying to bury my head into the sticky plastic surface of the table.

"Don't call me by that idiotic name," Zexion huffed, frowning, "And I was referring to getting you your own cup."

There was no way in hell I was drinking coffee. I'd sooner drink motor oil. It went through me worse then alcohol. Indigestion made me angry, and I couldn't afford to be more pissy then I already was.

I ignored Zexion's offer and sat up straight, peering down at him. I was pretty tall; he was on the shorter side. I liked the fact I could gloat down at him, if the need ever came. Now was not the time to screw around, however.

Zexion got to asking a question before one could form on my lips. "So, what do you remember?" he asked.

"Uh…well…" I began. It was a lot harder then I thought it would be. While innumerable memories had raced across my mind less then thirty minutes ago, I couldn't recall them off the top of my head. "There was the organization…I was ranked eight. You…were six. There where thirteen of us…thirteen was Roxas's number…Roxas…"

Zexion opened his mouth and started blabbing, but nothing seemed to hit my ears. I couldn't believe it. I'd forgotten about _Roxas_. Out of all the things I could have forgotten about my past life, I had to forget my closest friend. I really was a heartless jerk. It rattled my brain. I tried to remember more, but it just made my head hurt.

"You're not listening to me, are you, Axel?" Zexion asked, eyes narrowing at me.

"Zexion, I hate to break it to you, but nobody ever listens to you," I said, playing with some of the empty sugar packets from his Splenda spree, "I remembered a lot, but now it's all freaking gone."

"Memories are not that easily retrieved. The brain is very, very delicate and excruciatingly complex. Push it too far and it will be even harder to remember. You should understand; you push it over the edge every time you form a sentence," Zexion said, a smile trying to escape his lips.

"There's no reason to be a jerkface to me anymore, Zexy. We're not nobodies anymore. This is the next life, or whatever," I said. I was trying to be nice; I wanted to remember more. I figured that, if he left, I wouldn't have any way of gaining my memories back.

"Next life? Tch. If you can call this hell we're living in a life," Zexion sighed. He took a sip of coffee in the silence that followed.

"Well, you know, we used to do some pretty shitty things. Not you and me alone, I mean, the organization as a whole. Maybe this is a chance to find happiness; we just have to go out and grab it s'all," I suggested.

"And you find happiness in ass-kissing a whiny, overpaid singer?" Zexion asked, as emotionless as ever. At the very least, he could have given me the curtsey of showing how much he enjoyed taunting me.

"Hey, you're one of the guys he calls a friend. You're in his _posse_," I quipped.

"I do not burn bridges, Axel. When an old friend from college calls, I answer. Which brings me to my next point," he began, leaning in closer, "You and I need to stay very close."

I raised an eyebrow. "Sorry, Zexy, you're not really my type," I said, slightly disgusted.

"How stupid can you be? I am not talking about anything sexual. Do you realize the magnitude of our relationship? We are the only two people, as far we know, who are from the organization, who remember who they are. We're proof to each other that we're not crazy," he explained, "Proof that our memories are real."

"Right. That's why I'm glad I met you. But why do we have to be _friends_?" I asked, "You're boring."

"I am not! You are the boring one, not seeing past your own damned nose. If you remember correctly, it was _you_ who sent the Riku replica to kill me. Besides, I'm not proposing friendship. It's just that…what were to happen if you or I got in an accident? Or perhaps financial trouble? Or something as equally terrible? Neither of us have family in this world; nor friends who'd be willing to save our asses in a time of need," he said.

I had to hand it to him. He was thinking ahead. Every time I thought ahead, it just ended up as disaster. But what Zexion said really made sense to me. I remembered how I felt when I'd first shown up in this world, alone, not a single person willing to help me; and those memories were much more vivid then those of the organization. If we both wanted to survive here, it would be beneficial to keep close contact.

"Makes sense. But how can I know if I can trust you?" I asked.

"There is nothing I can do at this exact moment to show you. But the idea is that, if one helps the other, the favor might be returned someday," he explained, pulling a pen out of his jacket and grabbing a napkin. He scribbled on it his numbers, address and email. He handed me the pen, and I followed suit.

"There you go Zexy," I said, smirking, "If I die, I expect you to be at my funeral."

"Most definitely something I would not want to miss," he said, standing up and finishing his now cold cup of coffee, "And I expect you to keep me up to date on your information. You seem like the type who cannot stay in one place too long."

The bastard could see right through me. I began to wonder if he'd always been that way, until I noticed he was walking out the door.

I sprinted up after him. "Hey, hey…wait!" I cried, joining him outside only to be hit with a blast of cold air.

"What is it?" he asked, turning around.

"How…how come you remember more than me? How come you knew who I was when you first saw me?" I asked, "Didn't you say I was the only organization member you've ran into so far?"

Something flickered in Zexion's eyes that I didn't catch. "I met another member previous to you. But they didn't seem to remember who I was," he explained, "In any case, I've been working hard to construct my memories ever since."

"So, wait! Who did you run into?" I asked, my curiosity not yet satisfied, "Was it Roxas?"

Zexy raised an eyebrow at me. "You know more then I do. Was that boy…Sora, was it? Was he successful in taking us down? If he was, which I am assuming is true since _you_ are here, then he would have had to merge with Roxas," Zexion said.

"Yeah, that's what happened," I said, nodding.

"You don't get it, do you? Roxas, as we knew him, is gone, if what you're telling me is correct," Zexion said.

"R-right. I just thought…maybe, you know, since he was like…his own person, maybe somehow he'd end up here…" I mumbled.

Zexion just shook his head, and started to walk off. "Keep in touch," he yelled, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets.

I watched Zexion walk away until he'd turned a corner two blocks down. I contemplated walking home myself; it wasn't like I was going to get any sleep. I knew I was going to be up all night, trying to forget about the best friend I'd never see again.

* * *

**Author note: **So ends chapter 2! If you enjoyed this, please, write me a review! Constructive Criticism is always a joy.


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